petals flung back and drooping, unable to uphold its gorgeous robes.
The flower of the field pea, here again, would make a model for a lady's
hat; so would a butterfly with closed wings on the verge of a leaf; so
would the broom blossom, or the pink flower of the restharrow. This
hairy caterpillar, creeping along the hawthorn, which if touched,
immediately coils itself in a ring, very recently was thought a charm in
distant country places for some diseases of childhood, if hung about the
neck. Hedge mustard, yellow and ragged and dusty, stands by the gateway.

In the evening, as the dew gathers on the grass, which feels cooler to
the hand some time before an actual deposit, the clover and vetches
close their leaves--the signal the hares have been waiting for to
venture from the sides of the fields where they have been cautiously
roaming, and take bolder strolls across the open and along the lanes.
The aspens rustle louder in the stillness of the evening; their leaves
not only sway to and fro, but semi-rotate upon the stalks, which causes
their scintillating appearance. The stars presently shine from the pale
blue sky, and the wheat shimmers dimly white beneath them.

So time advances till to-day, watching the reapers from the shadow of
the copse, it seems as if within that golden expanse there must be
something hidden, could you but rush in quickly and seize it--some
treasure of the sunshine; and there _is_ a treasure, the treasure of
life stored in those little grains, the slow product of the sun. But it
cannot be grasped in an impatient moment--it must be gathered with
labour. I have threshed out in my hand three ears of the ripe wheat: how
many foot-pounds of human energy do these few light grains represent?

The roof of the Crystal Palace yonder gleams and sparkles this
afternoon as if it really were crystal under the bright rays. But it was